


The Secret's Out

by rainydaysanddustybooks94



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Dysautonomia, Gen, invisible illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydaysanddustybooks94/pseuds/rainydaysanddustybooks94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I found this in one of my old notebooks when I was still watching BBC Sherlock, and I figured I'd post it even though I don't really watch the show anymore. Sherlock has something called Dysautonomia, which is a malfunction of your autonomic nervous system, and John Watson and Greg Lestrade finally find out. I'd say this is set sometime between the first and second episode of season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret's Out

            Sherlock and John exchanged triumphant grins as Donovan cuffed the suspect. The chase had been the best part of it.

            “I’m going to need you two to come with me and answer some questions,” Lestrade reminded them, exasperation tinging his voice despite the quirk of a grin. Sherlock bit back a grimace. Usually after cases he chose to lie down to recover. Judging by how he felt- his skin felt too tight and there was just the faintest tremble to his fingers-he had a bad attack coming on soon.

            “It can wait, it’s not as if you really need us,” Sherlock dismissed. Lestrade frowned.

            “Yes, yes, I do. There’s no getting out of this, Sherlock,” he rebutted. John nudged Sherlock’s arm.

            “Come on, Sherlock. It’s not as if you have anything better to do right now, anyways.” Sherlock scowled.

            “Actually-

            “Nope, come on,” John interrupted, steering Sherlock towards a cab that he’d caught. Sherlock gritted his teeth as his vision darkened around the edges. Wasn’t John supposed to be a _good_ doctor? Couldn’t he see Sherlock was feeling poorly? It took every bit of restraint not to collapse against the cool window, once inside the cab. If he held out until they returned to 221B, he could pass out in his room to his body’s delight.

            “I don’t see why this is necessary,” he huffed, careful to annunciate each syllable. The lack of oxygen to his brain was jamming it. The deductions that normally piled on were stunted, coming only half-formed. His thoughts were starting to stall, and his senses, to overload.

            “It’s part of the process of capturing Reinheart,” John sighed.

            “What’s got you so impatient anyways?” Sherlock made a face, but didn’t answer. His phone had convieniently went off.

            **You should just tell the good doctor.-MH**

**Piss. Off. –SH**

**He ~is~ a doctor, brother. –MH**

**oh yes and look at how all those other idiots failed before him. Doctors don’t ~get~ this, Mycroft.**

**Hope springs eternal.-MH**

**not for the patient**

Sherlock was too shaky to bother with capitalizations or proper grammar. By the time he looked up again, they had arrived. Sherlock made sure John got out first so he had time to adjust. As soon as he stood up, Sherlock felt all the blood drain to his feet. For a moment, even as he kept walking, Sherlock thought he was going to collapse. Inside, John frowned at him.

            “You’re a bit pale, are you feeling alright?” Sherlock grumbled noncommittally and John fell into step beside him, shoulder pressing against his.

            “When we get home, you’re eating and drinking something,” John ordered. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing.

            “Right,” Lestrade uttered, once they entered. “Here we go.” Halfway through Sherlock’s explanation, his fingers spasmed as pain tore through his chest. He slammed his eyes shut and bit down on the noise that threatened to escape.

            “I’m l-leaving,” he snapped out, exploding out of his chair. Surprised shouts of protest. Not four steps and his legs gave out.

            “Sherlock!” Holding himself up was too tasking so he slid to the ground all the way, pressing his face into his knees. Sherlock could feel the full body shudders wracking his body. Someone grasped his wrist and held it upright, revealing just how hard his hands were shaking.

            “A seizure?”

            “No, he’s conscious, just disoriented, I think.” The voices spun around him, melding with the sudden ringing of John’s phone.

            “Now really isn’t a good time, Mycroft. Your brother’s just-

            “I-what?”

            “He never said anything.” A rummage through Sherlock’s pockets. His medicine.

            “He’s an idiot. Thanks, Mycroft.”

            “Well?”

            “It’s called Dysautonomia. Medically speaking, his autonomic-automatic-nervous system is malfunctioning.” Hands carefully propped him up. A low moan escaped Sherlock. All he wanted was to lie down again.

            “Here, Sherlock. Take these.” Sherlock automatically opened his mouth when pills were pressed against it. Water followed soon after, and Sherlock swallowed them after only some minor choking. His whole body went limp when he was lowered again. Sherlock pulled away when they brushed his skin, but relaxed when his hair was stroked. An insurmountable amount of time passed before Sherlock was back in control. He was lying with his head propped against Lestrade’s knees and John’s fingers at his wrist.

            “Hypotension causes a thready and palpitating pulse, Jo-hn, you know that,” he croaked, trembling just at the effort from talking. Both men started.

            “Sherlock, you daft git, why didn’t you tell anyone?” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock made a face.

            “Not now,” he mumbled, blinking against the fatigue. Slowly, they helped him upright.

            “Got it?” John asked. Sherlock grimaced as a wave of nausea hit him and his head pounded.

            “Got something,” he slurred, swaying. John’s grip tightened.

            “That’s it. I’m getting a wheelchair,” Lestrade snapped. It was a testament to how worn out Sherlock was, that he didn’t protest.

            “What have you been doing with other cases?” John asked quietly while they waited. Sherlock leaned his head against John’s shoulder, swallowing roughly.

            “U-u-usually I-I jjust p-ass ouuuuut in my b-bedroom. Drag m-myself out be-fore you, you get u-p and, and, and m-make mys-elf w-ork onan ex-ex-ex- _per_ iment toooo bring my, my f-f-f-f-focus b-ack. Try a-and drink _water_. I a-av-v-void fo-od b-b-b-because my brain dooooooes n-n-not ssssend the, the, c-c-c-orr-ect m-m-message-I d-d-don’t experience-ence h-h-hunger o-often,” Sherlock responded. John gripped his arms tighter. When he spoke again, his voice was rough.

            “Listen, Sherlock. You’re my best mate. You’re insanely intelligent but you are an _idiot._ You have to take care of yourself. I am going to research more about Dysautonomia, I will become your official doctor, and you, Sherlock Holmes, are going to start _taking care of yourself.”_ Sherlock laughed weakly.

            “V-v-very w-w-well, J-Jo-hn.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Dysautonomia is something I am afflicted with. Specifically, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. I figure there are maybe one or two fanfics out there writing about Dysautonomia, and only a few more than that about a chronic non-terminal illness. Sometimes you just gotta vent through your favorite characters. This is probably slightly OOC but I was aiming more for the expression of how the disease would affect Sherlock, and less about his personality. When you're in pain, or symptomatic like he is, you might as well be a different person.  
> P.S:Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the characters!


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